Venite Adoremus
by The Eye of the Crow
Summary: Connor, a pathologically shy choir boy, has a terrible crush on a certain grumpy organist. Also, it's Christmas and he's never had a home, but that might be about to change. Hank/Connor slash


**I. ****When the Dove Returned to Him in the Evening**

_November 2nd _

The Mass ended. Connor stayed in his seat for some time while others around him rose from their pews and headed for the chapel's doors. He stared unblinkingly ahead at the simple stained glass image representing a dove with a green leaf in its beak.

_When the dove returned to him in the evening, there in its beak was a freshly plucked olive leaf! Then Noah knew that the water had receded from the earth_, Connor recited in his mind. It made him feel a little bit better. Although there were a lot of things dividing him and the other visitors of today's service, there was also something they had in common. All Christians knew the Bible, after all.

Meanwhile, the last steps had hushed down. The organ, which stopped playing after the last verse of the All Souls' Day song, suddenly resounded with music. Its tones made Connor snap out of his musings.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise. While with hymnal songs that filled the chapel before he wasn't even sure that the instrument hiding in the choir loft is a real organ, considering the option that it could be just a reed organ, now his doubts dispelled.

Not only the instrument itself changed, so it now resembled a truly majestic organ with thousands of pipes, which are to be found in the largest cathedrals and couldn't possibly fit into an ordinary cemetery chapel, but the entire building seemed to have filled with some kind of strange energy. Connor was no music connoisseur, but the composition coming from up above seemed modern, bordering on avant-garde; bold, seemingly incongruous tones created an unexpected harmony that resonated with something inside of him.

Although he didn't give it the slightest thought while listening to the routine pieces played during the service, now he caught himself imagining the unknown organist. In Connor's imagination, it was a man few years older than himself, with sharply chiseled features and spellbinding eyes. The man's dark hair was slightly unkempt, as every now and then he ran his hand through it in a dramatic gesture while he played.

Connor's gaze inadvertently strayed to the choir loft. From this angle, he couldn't even see the organ, let alone the player sitting behind it.

He looked around the chapel, to check that there truly was no one else left but him. Then he didn't think twice and headed to the open door of the choir loft staircase. While he ascended the spiral staircase and the organ music culminated in a grandiose finale, Connor's imagination was running at full speed to add final touches to the fantasy figure of the unknown musician.

He was slim, skinny even, dressed in a black velvet shirt with a red scarf thrown carelessly over one shoulder. There was something French in his overall appearance, to the point where Connor could easily imagine a beret sitting a bit awry on the mane of raven hair, even though the organist wouldn't wear his headwear inside of the chapel, of course.

There were only a few steps left. From this close, the music was so loud that it was almost deafening. It sounded like something intended for a much larger space than this modest chapel could offer. _Who could possibly play like this in here?_

Connor's overactive imagination, which he had acquired over the years to help him escape the desolate everyday reality of his adolescence, immediately showed him the imaginary organist as someone born in this village who achieved success somewhere in the world (for example in Paris), came to visit his family for All Souls' Day, and stopped to play at today's mass at some acquaintance's request.

Connor pressed the handle of the door on the top of the staircase and entered the choir loft as quietly as possible. A powerful crescendo had just ended, followed by a much quitter postlude.

Not counting the flickering of candles and colorful lanterns on the graves outside the arched windows, the only light up here was provided by a weak lamp directly above the organ, which was turned to only illuminate the keyboard, and the only thing Connor could see from the organist at first was the hands, fluttering over the keys like a pair of doves.

The piece ended. The doves lay on the keys, faint as though they had spent the whole day flying over a flooded land, in a vain search of a dry place to rest. Then one of them shot forth and pressed something on the side of the organ, which caused the entire choir loft to be flooded by a bright light falling from the above.

Connor let out an involuntary hiss; that was because he found out that the hands didn't belong to the young Parisian bohemian from his fantasy. Their real owner was a tired looking fifty-something man in a denim jacket with bloodshot eyes, disheveled mane of gray hair and equally gray beard. Connor's hiss didn't escape his attention.

The bloodshot eyes, which just a moment ago had gazed from underneath the heavy eyelids drowsily like those of an old tired dog, suddenly sharpened and pierced Connor with unexpected acuteness.

"What d'ya want," a gruff, hoarse voice snapped, and Connor caught a whiff of strong alcohol and cheap cigarettes.

"I just-" Connor's voice got stuck in his throat. He had actually not given any thought to what he'd do when he sees the unknown organist, but if he was ready to talk to someone it was the figment of his imagination, not a real person. And especially not this man, who just rose to his full height before Connor's eyes, and it turned out that said height reached well over six feet. Moreover, unlike the nonexistent Parisian dandy, he couldn't be described as slim, much less skinny; it was words like muscular or bulky that came to mind.

_If he wanted, he could snap me in half_, ran through Connor's head, and that thought made him feel a strange tingling all over his body, which did little to help him compose a meaningful sentence explaining his presence here.

"Can you tell me the way to the bathroom?" he heard himself babble, to his utter mortification. The organist's face showed a mix of puzzlement and disbelief. The hulking man opened his mouth to say something, but Connor didn't stay long enough to hear it. With a mumbled apology, he made a hurried retreat to the staircase.

Only during his humiliating escape down the stairs did he realize that the instrument on the choir loft, which just a moment ago had managed to create an illusion of a Parisian cathedral, was actually a small reed organ.

…

_November 19th_

Connor leaved through the fall issue of the town newsletter, the first one delivered into his mailbox after he had moved here. He read an article about the launch of the construction of the new sewage system with a mild interest, while the success of the local elementary school pupils at a pet and small animal trade show left him unmoved. Then his gaze fell on a rectangle with the following text:

_Enjoy singing? Join the Christmas chants! _

_St. Cecilia's Church Choir is looking for new singers to take part in the Christmas Eve vigil. _

_Anyone interested can come to our choir practices, which are held every Tuesday, 7 PM at the rectory. _

_All welcome, especially men. _

The invitation wasn't signed, but Connor's heart still skipped a beat. During the few weeks he had spent in this small town, he learned that the church choir was, together with playing the organ at services, the responsibility of the local organist named Hank Anderson.

Visits to the church were so far the only social activity that Connor engaged in his new place of residence. In the beginning, he felt like an intruder, like someone with "I don't belong here" written on his forehead. Curious looks that he naturally couldn't avoid as a newcomer didn't really help matters. He was, however, made to feel better by father Markus, who didn't mind in the slightest when Connor confessed to him that he was not a Roman Catholic.

"Our parish is open to all, as our entire Church should be," father Markus had said and Connor felt a pang when he remembered how his own community had chased him out.

Apart from father Markus, however, Connor didn't really speak to anyone in the church, least of all to Mr. Anderson. After every service, he remained sitting in the pew in a hope to witness another magical musical experience like that in the chapel, but that unfortunately didn't happen. After the last verse of that day's hymnal song was over, there was always just a conventional postlude, shortly afterwards followed by heavy, sometimes a little unsteady steps signaling that Hank Anderson left the church.

Connor's eyes were riveted to the line proclaiming that _all were welcome, especially men_. There was of course absolutely nothing suggestive about this sentence. In the course of his lifetime, Connor had already belonged to three different choirs and in each of them it was women who prevailed, to the dismay of their choirmasters. Yet for some indiscernible reason, that innocent sentence made his cheeks grow hot.

His imagination, which had already led him into a lot of trouble in his life, started working uncontrollably and, without Connor actively wishing for such a thing, showed him a vision in which he rang the rectory bell, Mr. Anderson opened the door and before Connor had the chance to say anything, the older man roughly shoved him to the wall, used those big, talented hands to easily immobilize Connor's wrists and then ravished his mouth without asking…

The blood from his cheeks moved to considerably lower parts of his anatomy.

Connor groaned. Before, he had almost decided to go to the choir practice, as singing was his hobby and he also planned to celebrate his first real Christmas with everything it entailed; an active participation in the Christmas Eve Vigil was perfectly in line with his plans. Now, however, he couldn't imagine looking the choirmaster in the eye. _As though the embarrassment in the chapel wasn't enough. _

_Every Tuesday, 7 PM_, the invitation stated. Coincidentally, today was a Tuesday and the clock above Connor's kitchen table read 6:47 in the evening. Connor took a deep breath and, hoping that things will sort themselves out somehow, threw on his sweater and jacket and left the apartment.

* * *

**II. Those Who Guard Their Mouths and Their Tongues Keep Themselves from Calamity**

When Connor rang the bell of the rectory door twelve minutes later, his fantasies – be it for better or for worse – failed to materialize. Not only that the door wasn't opened by Hank Anderson; it wasn't opened at all, so after a few minutes of awkwardly shuffling his feet, Connor tried to press the handle. When he found out the door wasn't locked, he hesitantly entered the rectory.

Finding the room where the choir practice was held wasn't hard; Connor just had to go in the direction from which he heard the _do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do._

In the hall, Connor removed his worn sneakers and put them next to some five sizes bigger black lace-up boots, which could belong only to the choirmaster Anderson, and the sight of those mismatched pairs together sent that familiar light tingling running through his body.

He knocked on the door from which the singing emerged, but no one seemed to hear him over the solmization exercise, so once again he had no other option but to enter uninvited.

When he entered the room, the singing came to an abrupt stop, and about ten pairs of surprised eyes turned to look at him. The first one to speak was Hank Anderson.

"If you're looking for the men's room, it's on the opposite side of the hall, second door on the right," he told Connor with a smirk that could be mocking or merely amused; Connor honestly couldn't tell.

He blushed crimson.

"No, I- came about the ad. The choir one," he explained hastily, sincerely regretting that he decided to come here.

"What the heck?" There it was, the already familiar mix of puzzlement and disbelief on the choirmaster's face. "I didn't write no freaking ad."

"I did," said a familiarly looking woman about thirty with short dirty blond hair. Connor realized that he knew her; her name was Kara and she worked in the same supermarket as he did, even though so far they had met only on one shift.

"I put a notification into the newsletter that our choir is looking for more singers for the vigil, especially men."

"But why, for God's sake?" the organist said, looking honestly surprised.

"I had enough of listening to your complaints about how we sopranos squeak like angry mice and no one can hear poor Simon here," she said belligerently and daringly thrust her slightly pointy chin out. A young blond man next to her, probably Simon, grimaced at her words.

Mr. Anderson gave Kara a scathing look.

"Wouldn't it be easier to cut down on the squeaking than to drag in some newbies?" he muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said:

"I hope that you wrote that we only accept people who can sing, right?"

"Well…" Kara found herself at loss for words, because that was _not_ what she wrote; she stated that the choir welcomed everyone who enjoyed singing. And as anyone who ever attended a karaoke party probably knows, _enjoying_ singing and _being good at it_ are often two very different things.

"Let's give you a try," the choirmaster addressed Connor. "Sing us something."

"Do you have something in mind?" Connor asked, feeling unsure.

"Anything from the hymnal, or even a pop song, it doesn't matter," Hank Anderson waved his hand in careless dismissal.

The inside of Connor's head was suddenly completely empty. He couldn't think of a single song he knew. He hated pop music and as for the hymnal songs, he has yet to remember any so well to be able to sing it from beginning to the end.

_I can't possibly sing_ '_the wheels on the bus go round and round'_ _here_, Connor thought desperately while the silence surrounding him was becoming less and less bearable and the choirmaster's expression turned more and more impatient. And then something in his head clicked and familiar words rushed in, begging to be let out.

"I'll give to you, Jehovah, the best I have to give. I'll live for you, Jehovah, as long as I may live…"

After he finished, the room went quiet for a few seconds and then it burst into an enthusiastic applause. "Bravo!" Kara exclaimed while Simon gave Connor a thumbs-up. Even the choirmaster looked impressed.

"So you _can_ sing, that's good – what is your name again?"

"Connor Stern," Connor said with a shy but pleased smile.

"You can sing, Connor, I'll give you that," Hank Anderson repeated his praise, choosing to address Connor by his given name. Then his expression turned into a puzzled frown. "But care to explain why you chose a Jehovah's Witnesses song of all things?"

Connor gave him an unhappy look, feeling at loss how to explain himself. _Because they are the only thing I know? I grew up among them but they cast me out, am I still one of them or not?_ Even though it was almost a year since Connor had left the Jehovah's Witnesses community, he wasn't able to sort out the issue of his own identity even inside of his own mind, let alone talk with other people about it.

"Does it even matter?" It was Simon who came to his rescue when Connor's silence lasted for too long and the singers stared to exchange awkward glances.

"I guess you're right. With a voice like this, I might accept even a scientologist," the choirmaster said with a shrug and everybody laughed in relief. Fortunately, the issue of Connor's faith was left alone not only for the remained of this particular choir practice, but also at all those that followed later.

…

_December 4th_

Without raising his eyes, Connor automatically scanned what had to be already a twentieth packed sandwich, thirtieth bottle of Coke and at least fiftieth chocolate bar. The time shorty after one in the afternoon, when the pupils from the local elementary school had a break between the morning and afternoon classes constituted a rush hour in their supermarket.

Three very similar purchases later, however, Connor was forced to raise his eyes to make sure that this time, the buyer was not a school kid. It was when a lonely bottle of rum reached his cash register.

And then he raised his eyes even higher, so he could look Hank Anderson in the face and not in the middle of the man's wide chest.

"Gimme two packs of Moon Red with that," Hank muttered when their gazes met.

Connor turned back and reached the shelf behind the cash register with a shaking hand to pull out the requested cigarettes. In his haste to satisfy Hank's wish, he managed to knock one pack down to the floor. He ignored it and handed the cigarettes to Hank, his heart beating frantically in his throat. When they fingers brushed, Connor felt heat spreading all over his body.

_Why can't I be normal?_ Connor thought despondently. He truly didn't know whether the fault lay with the strict upraising he received from his Jehovah Witness mother, due to which he had had no friends at school and establishing even the most banal social ties was a nightmare to him to this day, or if being this useless was in his nature. The cashier job, which his mother would definitely scorn if she ever found out about it, became Connor's choice for this very reason – he wanted to learn to communicate with people. And he thought that over the last few weeks, he had made some progress in this area. The presence of choirmaster Anderson, however, made him lose even that modicum of social skills he had managed to acquire.

Connor forced a smile on his face and said:

"It'll be thirteen dollars and eighty cents."

Hank took a creased twenty-dollar bill out of the pocket of his jeans and threw it in front of Connor. Connor leaned towards the cash register to get out the corresponding amount of change, but Hank stopped him by unexpectedly taking his hand.

"I'm good, you can keep the change," Hank said with a small smile that made his eyes wrinkle in the corners.

"But…" Connor stared at him with his mouth hanging open. The wonder caused by the incredible, miraculous fact of Hank taking his hand made way to puzzlement. It happened quite a lot that a customer did not want their dime back, but more than seven dollars? That would be generous even if this place was a restaurant, which it wasn't. "But Hank, you need it more than I do," Connor almost said but managed to hold himself back in the last moment.

Which was only good, because saying something like this would be highly impolite – the choice of the cheapest liquor and cigarette brand in combination with a rather unkempt appearance suggested that Hank wasn't exactly well off, but Connor with his minimum wages and social housing could hardly throw stones.

Plus, if he let the choirmaster's given name slip, he'd break his own rules of how to talk to the man. Hank started to use Connor's first name right away, but didn't offer him the same courtesy. Connor didn't dare to do this unbidden, but calling Hank 'Mr. Anderson' seemed off and reminded Connor of his school days, which he didn't like one bit. So when they talked – which wasn't all that often anyway – Connor tried to avoid addressing the older man directly.

Connor's gaze followed Hank all the way to the automatic sliding door.

"He didn't buy any food again, did he?" a voice said right next to his ear, making Connor startle. He turned to face the owner of said voice that turned out to be Kara, who was putting dog food in a nearby shelf.

"No, just alcohol and cigarettes," Connor answered truthfully.

Kara shook her head in resignation.

"He's been wasting his life away ever since he started to live alone. Too bad, he's such a good guy when you get to know him," she said and gave Connor a weirdly significant look he had no idea how to interpret. However, it was something else in what Kara had said that caught his interest.

"Hank lives alone?" he asked with fake nonchalance.

"Yeah. His wife left him after-" Kara stopped mid-sentence to send a brief look around the store. When she made sure that there were no customers or other staff around, she left the dog food to its fate and leaned against Connor's cash register in a conspiratorial fashion.

"How can I put it – it was such an unfortunate affair. It started – everything started with Hank losing his job," Kara began her story.

Something deeply ingrained in Connor's upbringing almost made him say that Kara shouldn't engage in idle talk – _those who guard their mouths and their tongues keep themselves from calamity_ – but he was able to swallow it down, because his interest in Hank Anderson was stronger than anything.

"You know, he hasn't always been an organist here in this town. He did play at the Mass every now and then, but it wasn't his job. He taught organ at a music academy, but he had some beef with the director and she sacked him. Father Markus gave him a job as an in-house organist, and Hank also takes side jobs playing at weddings and especially funerals, because there are more of those, sadly enough. Things hadn't been going all that well between him and Samantha – that's the ex's name – but after Hank lost his job, they went downhill really fast. All their neighbors could hear them fighting, and Hank was spending more and more time at Two Codgers."

Connor gave her a nod to show he was following. "Two Codgers" was the name of a pub located within walking distance from the church. When Connor walked by, he often peeked into the window to see the choirmaster sitting all alone at the table, frowning at the beer in front of him.

"It was really hard on poor Cole," Kara added.

"Cole?" Connor raised his brows in an inquiring manner.

"Hank's son, a nice boy. He went to school with our Alice, she was really wretched when it happened," Kara said with a note of sadness in her voice.

"When what happened?" Connor asked in mild confusion, because the so-far completely straightforward narration suddenly became incomprehensible.

"That thing in the chapel. Samantha just lost it. Well, I don't blame her, to see her own son in a coffin… Anyway, since then, Hank has-"

"But what thing in the chapel?" Connor interrupted her with growing impatience. He still didn't understand what Kara was talking about, but he was beginning to have some idea. He wished he was wrong, though. Kara took a deep breath and was about to answer him, when suddenly there was a loud shriek of "Kara! Where the hell are you?"

Kara quickly pulled away from the cash register and headed for the fruit and vegetable section, where the elderly manager was waiting for her with a dissatisfied look on her face.

Connor didn't get to hear the rest of Hank's story from her that day. Yet he still felt that he learned enough to at least partly understand what made Hank Anderson the way he was.

* * *

**III.** **Wine Is a Mocker and Beer a Brawler; Whoever Is Led Astray by Them Is Not Wise.**

When Connor's shift ended, it was already growing dark. After he exited the store, he was immediately hit by a gust of chilled air. During the last week, the temperatures plummeted, a rainy fall giving way to a frosty winter. There was barely a smattering of snow, but it was freezing every night and today, the temperature didn't climb over zero even during the day. Despite the chill that made Connor immediately thrust his bare hands into the pockets of his too thin coat, he didn't feel like returning into his miniature, sparingly furnished studio apartment above the post office right away, so he decided to take a short walk.

He went up the hill, walking along the street flanking the park around the town hall, and watched the flickering Christmas lights adorning almost all the houses he passed, even though it was still almost three weeks until the holidays.

_Hank lost his son. _

While just a moment ago, Connor had been almost angry at Hank – even though he didn't have any right to be, of course – for wasting that huge musical talent, a glimpse of which Connor was served on All Souls' Day, in such a place and what was worse, drowning it in alcohol, now his throat constricted in a surge of pity for the man.

Because Hank often seemed gruff bordering on cold, but after a few choir practices Connor learned that the harsh exterior hid a heart of gold. He was sure that Hank had been a good father, unlike his own who disappeared when Connor was less than three, and left him alone with mother.

_With mother who refused to celebrate Christmas because of her faith_, Connor thought with an echo of old bitterness when he passed another beautifully illuminated pine tree. Refusing to celebrate Christmas was objectively speaking the least significant item on the list of things that Connor held against his mother, but God knew why this particular wrongdoing was among those he still felt most acutely, even now. _I'm sure Hank and his son had celebrated Christmas every year, _ran through Connor's head and he felt ashamed for being occupied with his own childish hurts, which were nothing compared to Hank's loss.

He reached the top of the hill, coming close to a shallow pond. To his surprise, there were several children skating on its frozen surface. It had only been freezing for a few days, and mostly just at night, so the ice layer couldn't be all that thick, but the children were still skating here almost without any supervision; just one little girl was closely watched by a concerned mother standing on the bank.

When Connor got even closer, he found that there was one more person standing on the other side of the pond, in the shadow of a huge bare willow. As the figure was standing in the dark, it was barely visible except for the glowing end of a cigarette.

He moved forward after he reached the edge of the frozen pond. Then he learned that the lonely smoker observing the skating children was no one else but Hank Anderson. His heart clenched in a new rush of compassion. Last year, Hank's son Cole most probably skated on this pond, so the seemingly idyllic view of the frolicking children must have felt like a dagger to Hank's heart.

Meanwhile, the sky grew completely dark and the street lights lit up, lending the pond their yellow glow. The pond gradually emptied; the mother with the little girl were the first two to leave, followed by a group of four boys about eight, who had been playing ice hockey. The lonely figure under the willow stayed in its place.

It started to snow and Connor felt increasingly colder. This morning he was in a hurry and because his apartment was very close to wok, he decided not to waste his time with dressing too much. With turned out to be a mistake. The most sensible thing he could do was to turn on his heel and immediately leave for home. But Connor didn't want to be sensible, so he headed towards Hank who had just thrown away the butt of his cigarette and emerged from the shadow.

When their gazes met, Connor's mind was once again almost completely empty.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he blurted out the only thing that he could think of.

Hank's face, illuminated by the yellowish glow of the street light, assumed the expression of unadulterated surprise.

"Excuse me?" he asked Connor.

Connor's face lost all color. As always, he had acted on an impulse with not exactly clear idea regarding how Hank would react to his condolences, but incomprehension was something he didn't expect at all. Even though it was nothing strange, he now realized. He had no idea when the tragedy took place. It could have been many years ago and Connor's sudden words caught the choirmaster completely off guard. He grappled for words to explain himself.

"I have… Kara told me about Cole – about your son – I don't know what exactly happened but I understand that…I'm really sorry," Connor stuttered. He was shivering all over, and for once it wasn't out of nervousness.

Hank's brows furrowed in a worried expression.

"Look, Connor, I've got no idea what you're talking about, but you're freezing. Why the hell ain't you wearing gloves?"

Then he noticed how hard Connor tried to mimic a turtle by pulling his head inside his coat collar, and smacked his lips in obvious dissatisfaction. "Or a scarf. Here, take this," he said and without waiting for Connor's reply untied his own thick tartan scarf and put it around Connor's neck.

"I think that we should talk, but you'd soon turn into an icicle if we stayed here. Let's go to my place, I live just a few minutes from here," he said simply. He put his hand lightly on the small of Connor's back to indicate the direction.

Connor had a distant feeling that he should be dying of embarrassment for making a fool of himself in front of the man he desired – he was able to admit that much to himself – but instead, he satisfied himself with blissfully inhaling the smell of Hank's aftershave emanating from the wonderfully warm woolen scarf and didn't think about anything at all. He just let himself be led away in some kind of dreamy haze, meekly like a lamb. The only thing he was aware of was Hank's hand that never left his back.

"We're here," Hank's voice woke Connor from his revery. He blinked and found out that they reached a big darkened house. There were no Christmas decorations in its vast garden, not that Connor expected any. While Hank opened the slightly rusty gate, Connor realized what kind of situation he got himself into. A man good twenty years older than him led him to his house while touching him in an intimate fashion.

Connor didn't have much experience in these matters, but he was still able to put two and two together; it was very likely that Hank would expect something from him. At least that was how Connor's fantasies usually went. These began on the day of his first choir practice on the rectory's doorstep and continued just about every night; right now, his favorite was the one where he stayed behind after a choir session, waiting until he and Hank were left alone. When Hank put the musical scores into his black leather satchel, a few sheets would fall to the ground. Connor would automatically bend over to collect them, while turning his back to Hank. A moment later, a strong arm would embrace him from behind and he would feel something hard digging into his buttocks. _"I wanted you from the first moment I saw you,"_ a voice would whisper into his ear, rough with desire.

_At the rectory! _Connor had to shake his head over his own depravity when he first thought of this particular fantasy. If only father Markus knew what kind of pervert he welcomed so warmly into his parish! Yet not even this thought stopped him from enjoying this fantasy to the end. Repeatedly.

But now, when there was a real chance of his fantasy turning into reality, Connor was suddenly more worried than excited. He was still rather inexperienced in this respect. It was less than a year since he found out, or rather admitted to himself he was gay, and the Jehovah's Witnesses community cast him out. During the few months when he had to find his own way around the world with no one telling him what he should or shouldn't do, he had one short failed relationship with a man, unsatisfying in all respects including the sexual one, and that was all.

Meanwhile, they walked all the way to the front door of the house, which Hank unlocked and let Connor inside a narrow hall, where there were a few pairs of large boots scattered around, obviously Hank's, and nothing more.

When Connor's numb fingers managed to remove his rather shoddy winter boots, he was provided with a pair of soft slippers he obediently put on, and followed Hank further into the house.

_What if he tells me to strip right away, _ran through his mind and his heart started beating frantically. He wasn't sure he was ready for something like that. Or rather he was sure that he was the opposite of ready.

A moment later, however, his worries turned out to be entirely misplaced, as the room they entered from the hall was not a bedroom but a rather untidy kitchen, with dirty dishes and empty bottles piling up on the countertops, and when Hank made him sit at a simple square kitchen table without any dishcloth, not only he didn't try to get Connor out of his coat or any other article of clothing, but on the contrary threw a warm, dark brown blanket over Connor's shoulders.

"At least until you stop shaking," Hank grunted in response to the puzzled look Connor gave him.

_Shaking?_ Connor thought in confusion and only then he realized that he really was shivering, and his teeth were chattering as though he was still outside.

"Holy shit, it's minus twelve degrees out there," Hank swore when he looked at the thermometer outside the kitchen window, which was already covered with ice spreading in flowery patterns. "And they keep nagging about some global warming or whatever…"

"M-m-m-minus twelve?" Connor managed to get out between bouts of chattering. "T-t-that…."

"Don't try to talk just yet, I'll give you something to warm you up," Hank interrupted him, and his words were proved true by a sound of a kettle whistling. A minute later, Connor had a steaming cup of tea in front of him. Or at least a steaming cup of something that looked like tea until the moment he tried to take a sip.

"There's alcohol in it!" Connor spluttered in accusation. At least he was able to master his voice again. He had abandoned some habits and opinions from his upbringing – he had never understood what was so bad about blood transfusions anyway – but he kept his wariness against alcohol. _Wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise._ The fact that it was Hank who was being led astray in this case truly worried him.

"Just a drop. No more than I'd give to my boy. Which reminds me – Kara told you that something happened to Cole? I didn't get it," Hank said, sitting across from him with his own tea, which Connor was sure contained more than just a drop of something stronger.

Connor took a careful sip of his tea laced with what was most probably rum – and there really was only a small amount of it, it was just that Connor was not used to liquor at all – and tried to forget his own assumptions and hasty conclusions and remember what exactly Kara had told him.

Finally he concluded that the only thing Kara _actually_ said was something incoherent about an incident in the chapel. That was what he told Hank.

"Oh, you're talking about _that _monkey business," the organist commented with a bitter smile and took a gulp from his mug.

There was silence for a while, in which the only sound was the gentle clinking of water being warmed up in the heater. Connor's gaze strayed into the frosty darkness behind the window where here and then a lonely snowflake glittered in the street lamp light. Hank spoke up:

"I guess you heard they kicked me out of the academy. It's not like one could keep it a secret in a town like this."

Connor gave a careful nod. On one hand he felt ashamed that he was listening to gossip about Hank, but on the other hand he couldn't feel but glad that it helped him get so close to the man.

"Since that time I've been playing at services, but you know how it is, the money's not that great, so I take some odd jobs on the side. Celebrations, baptisms, weddings, you name it. And funerals, of course."

"Uh-huh," Connor nodded to show he was listening with apt interest. The hot drink started to take effect; Connor was already warm enough to put the blanket away, throwing it over the back of an empty chair next to him.

"And that turned out to be a problem. Sam – my ex – often worked late, so it was me who had to pick Cole after school. It was often the case that I had to play at some funeral right afterwards, so I had no other choice but to take him with me. Which Samantha didn't like, she thought I was…" Hank stopped for a while and searched for the right word with a scowl on his face. "Corrupting him," he finished eventually.

"Corrupting him how?" Connor asked, confused, but Hank didn't elaborate. He didn't seem to hear Connor at all, lost in the world of his own.

"Hank? I mean, Mr. Anderson?" Connor corrected himself hastily. In a conversation like this, it was hard to avoid addressing the other man, but although he desperately wanted to use Hank's given name, he felt that it'd be seen as taking too many liberties.

"Don't Mr. Anderson me, I'm not that old," Hank growled, showing that it was the wrong decision on Connor's part.

"I'm sorry," Connor mumbled, feeling himself blush. He thought that soon the fingers of his both hands wouldn't be enough to count the number of occasions he made a complete idiot of himself in front of Hank. The choirmaster, however, waved his hand to show it was not a big deal, and went back to his story.

"Just so you know – at that time, Cole was really into zombies, vampires, that sort of thing. Sam thought it was because of all the funerals, but I think he got all of that from TV. There was a kids show about a group of ghouls he watched all the time. _Gnaw Patrol_, you seen that?"

Connor shook his head.

"I've never had a television," he said simply.

For a moment, Hank looked at him as though he suddenly grew another head, before the realization dawned on him and he remembered he was talking to a former Jehovah's Witness.

"Oh well," he said a little awkwardly while scratching his beard. "It's not like you've been missing out much, you know. The crap they feed people sometimes... Anyway I bet you a thousand bucks that it was this show's fault Cole was into those things that Samantha called _morbid_, and not the funerals."

Connor gave him an encouraging nod, even though he had no idea where the other man was going with all this.

"And now for the chapel incident, or how did you call it," Hank went on with a heavy sigh, taking a sip from the mug he had meanwhile managed to empty and refill with pure rum.

"It happened last October, when old Bob Mayer died. I went to school with his son Marv. After Bob's funeral, Marv came up to pay me. He brought a bottle of whiskey so we toasted to his father's memory, talked about old times... We kinda lost track of time, so Cole and Alice got bored."

"Alice?" Connor expressed his surprise that Hank's story suddenly gained another character.

"Kara's daughter. She and Cole were pretty tight, so we had an agreement with Kara so I would sometimes pick them together from after-school care so Cole had some company at the funerals," Hank explained.

Connor nodded. That made sense.

"So those two got tired of waiting for me and Marv to finish talking, and sneaked away," Hank said. Then he paused to take a breath while his eyes strayed out of the window.

Connor, who had also finished his tea, got perfectly warm while listening to Hank, so he got rid of not only his coat but also of the thin sweater he wore underneath. He got so captivated by Hank's story that he completely forgot about his worries about stripping in front of the older man.

"So me and Marv were talking when suddenly there was a horrible screeching from somewhere in the chapel. I ran down there and saw Samantha, God knows how she got there, pointing at something. That something was a stone chassis they use for moving coffins around, which in itself looks a bit like a coffin, you know? I peeked inside and there was Cole lying still with his eyes open wide, looking perfectly dead. When I leaned in to check he was still breathing, he yelled BOO!"

"So nothing happened to him? It was just an innocent prank?" Connor asked to make sure, because he was expecting something decidedly more tragic.

"Yeah, stupid prank," Hank said with a smile that was, however, more than a little bit bitter. "I might've even had a good laugh about it, if Samantha hadn't found it a sufficient reason to immediately pack her shit, take Cole and drive him to her parents who live two hundred miles away. A few days later, I found the divorce papers in the mail."

"Because of such…" Connor started but couldn't think of any appropriate expression to finish his sentence.

"Bullshit?" Hank did it for him. "She told me that I was a bad influence, that Cole's not normal and needs a shrink because of me. The little fact that I wasn't exactly sober when it happened certainly didn't help," Hank admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "We had problems before because of my drinking, but it wasn't the only reason. Things had been rough for a while, we had those 'irreconcilable differences', you know what I mean? But we kept it together for Cole. Well, the chapel thing was the end of it. Then the court agreed with Samantha that I'm no father material, so she got sole custody. I get to see my son twice a month."

"That's cruel," Connor exhaled.

Hank's features distorted in a pained grimace. He took a gulp from his mug.

"I can't say I didn't deserve that. And I don't mean because of what happened in the chapel… you know what, this month Cole doesn't even want to see me, and it's completely my fault."

"What happened?" Connor asked careful. It was only now that he realized that it was strange for the usually distant organist to confide in him in his way. He started to fear that Hank would also become aware of this and send him away.

"I kept nagging at him that he should take piano lessons in his new town, as I'm not around to teach him anymore, and he kept telling me that he didn't wanna, that he had no time with all his ice hockey and soccer practices," Hank replied and Connor noticed that his voice started to sound a little unsteady. "And I told him…" Hank went on and the waver in his voice got more prominent, "I told him that hockey and soccer players are dumb assholes and that I don't want him to become one of those. And since that time he's refused to see me or even speak to me on the phone."

Tears poured of Hank's eyes, and the older man immediately wiped them with a back of his hand. His other hand took hold of his mug, bringing it to his lips. After he had gulped down all that was left of his liquor, Hank's teary, bloodshot eyes met Connor's.

"I don't wanna kick you out, Connor, but I'm not the best company right now," he tiredly said exactly the words that Connor had been dreading. "I'm sure you've got better things to do than watch me drown in self-pity. Don't worry, I'll give you some proper clothes so you don't freeze outside," Hank muttered, heavily rising from his chair.

Connor mimicked him, but instead of leaving he made two steps in Hank's direction and put his hands on Hank's forearms. Hank looked down on him, his face briefly showing something that could be surprise or disbelief, but also a tentative hope.

_May I hug you_, Connor wanted to ask permission, but he couldn't make himself say anything over the lump in his throat. Instead, he simply did it, snaking his hands around Hank's waist and laying his head on Hank's wide chest. He didn't think about anything in particular, just breathing in the smell of Hank's aftershave and feeling Hank's shaky breathing gradually growing calmer.

After a moment, two heavy hands started to caress his back.

_So this is what home means_, Connor thought with wonder.

* * *

**IV. Venite Adoremus**

_December 23th_

Although the temperature had long since risen from the freezing at the beginning of December to several degrees above zero, the choir loft was so chilly that Connor had to burrow his neck deep into the collar of his jacket.

While he watched Hank's hands flying over the organ keys with sad longing, he couldn't help but relive the memory of those same hands embracing him. He was standing just a few feet from the organ, close enough to touch, but he still felt like there was an invisible wall between him and Hank.

Since the day Hank invited him to his home, the organist started to keep his distance. The fact that their talks were now limited to conveying only what was strictly necessary was not in itself such a dramatic change. But only now, after it suddenly stopped, Connor realized how much Hank actually _touched_ him before. The wonderful moment when Hank put his hand on the small of Connor's back to lead him to his home was preceded by grasping his hand at the store, and during previous choir practices he would lay his hand on Connor's shoulder when he explained something in the score.

All of this led Connor to think that Hank was simply one of those physical people who did not think much about touching those around them left and right, and attaching importance to such casual touches was something done only by individuals as pathetic as Connor himself who, since touching had always been scarce in his household, found any skin on skin contact precious.

But maybe he was wrong. When Connor crossed the line with his unasked for embrace, Hank might have realized how Connor interpreted his touches and decided to put a stop to it.

Even though he probably often seemed like a shy teen, Connor actually turned twenty-seven this year, and given his age, his track record was more than a little bit sad.

He hadn't had the courage to follow any of his childhood dreams, which were becoming a professional singer or a detective, didn't finish any of the three universities which his mother forced him to enroll at, and he currently lived in a municipal housing and sold sandwiches at a supermarket. His family and the entire Jehovah's Witness community washed their hands of him, and as for friends he had none; what he had was social anxiety disorder. In short, he was good for nothing.

Hank, on the other hand, might have problems with drinking and his marriage had fallen apart, but he possessed an exceptional musical talent, which he didn't let shine in cathedrals and concert halls as such a gift would deserve, but he instead lent it to the entire community, which was actually even more valuable. Especially the work he did as the choirmaster was almost incredible – under his tutelage, the choir composed of at best average singers sounded surprisingly professional.

That's why it didn't come as any surprise to Connor that his clumsy affections were met with refusal. But being aware of that didn't make that refusal any less painful.

"Surprisingly not terrible," Hank grunted after the last song was over. It came across as more of a reproach than a compliment. "Don't let it go to your head. You know what they say – no sweat on the training field, more blood on the battlefield."

A few people laughed at this remark, but it sounded rather forced. No one missed the fact that with the upcoming Christmas Eve vigil, their choirmaster's mood worsened day by day. That's why no one was staying behind after the practice, instead hurrying to their respective homes. Connor who was the last one to leave, took one final look at Hank sorting musical scores on the top of the organ. When their gazes met, Hank immediately averted his eyes, without as much as a word of goodbye.

Connor turned his back to him, blinking furiously to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. He hoped with all his heart that when Hank gets his Christmas surprise tomorrow, his own role in its preparation will stay secret, so that Hank wouldn't interpret it as an intrusion to his privacy or a desperate attempt to grab his attention.

…

_December 24th_

"Venite adoremus, venite adoremus, venite adoremus Dominum," Connor finished singing on the top of his lungs, and then just listened to the beautiful organ postlude. _Adeste Fideles, _his favorite, was the last song of the Vigil, the first one Connor had ever attended. He found the entire Mass so magical that he almost managed to forget his own suffering. The lavishly decorated trees and nativity scene, melodic carols and Father Markus's touching sermon created exactly the kind of Christmas atmosphere he had always wished to experience. The only thing missing was the surprise Connor had prepared for Hank.

Just when this thought crossed his mind, the choir loft door opened to let in a small figure. Before Hank's postlude was over, it found its way to the organ.

"Cole," Hank choked out.

"Merry Christmas, dad," Cole said with a grin and climbed on the bench behind the organ to sit beside his father.

"How-" Hank started to ask but then thought better of it, instead going with, "where's your mom?"

"She's waiting by the church," Cole replied. Hank didn't say anything to that, instead crushing his son in a bear hug.

Connor, who had been watching their reunion from afar, hastily turned towards the exit. His eyes were stinging as he ran down the steep stairs so quickly that he almost stumbled and fell head down.

Kara was calling him from behind, inviting him to a get-together at the rectory, but he pretended not to hear her. Even though he had grown rather fond of this village over the last two months, and really wished to become a full-fledged member of the community, at this particular moment he wanted to be alone. He wanted to be alone with Hank even more, but he knew it was impossible. After all, he himself made sure that Hank could be with his son tonight.

It was properly snowing for the first time this year. Connor stopped, turned his face heavenwards and let cold snowflakes gently cover his cheeks.

"You were great, Connor," someone next to him said. It was Simon accompanied by Father Markus, who was nodding in assent with a smile on his face. "We're really glad to have you here with us," the priest said warmly and repeated Kara's invitation to the rectory.

"Thank you, but I'm quite tired," Connor excused himself. "Maybe some other time."

"Have some punch at least," Simon told Connor while handing him a steaming cup. "I know you don't drink but there's so little alcohol in this that even kids can drink it," the blonde singer explained.

_Just a drop. No more than I'd give to my boy_. Connor felt a pang at the memory of Hank's words, or rather at the realization that a similar situation would probably never happen again. He hesitated a little but eventually accepted the cup out of politeness. If nothing else, he could use something to warm up his hands.

By taking a tentative sip, Connor found out that the drink he received was sweet, with a pleasant fruity flavor, and didn't really taste like liquor. Before he knew it, he drank the entire contents of his cup. Only then he went down the hill from the church, paying attention not to slip on the fresh snow.

He passed the brightly shining windows of the rectory, from which he could hear merry voices, and reached a lonely bench under a column shrine. He dusted off the snow, sat down and watched families returning to their homes. The pleasant warmth from the punch was seeping into his body and he felt wonderful and terrible at the same time.

The flow of worshippers was gradually dwindling down until it stopped completely. The last lonely figure that passed Connor's bench was Hank Anderson. Connor didn't try to draw his attention and Hank at first seemed not to notice him, but after a few steps he stopped and looked directly at Connor.

"Here you are," he exhaled in relief. "I was looking for you at the rectory but they told me you went home."

"You're not with Cole?" Connor asked him, trying not to attach too much importance to the fact Hank had been looking for him. The choirmaster just wanted to thank him for the singing, Connor was sure. "I thought you'd celebrate Christmas together."

Hank chuckled and for once it didn't sound bitter.

"It's almost midnight. We agreed with Samantha that I'll pick him up on Boxing Day. At least I've got time to get some Christmas tree, with a discount too cause it's after Christmas Day," Hank chuckled once more and sat down on a bench next to Connor.

"I'd like to thank you," he said, more serious now.

"Me? What do I have to do with it?" Connor tried to feign surprise, even though he knew he wasn't much of an actor. _Has Cole…_

"Cole didn't say anything. He's a kid but he can keep his word," Hank said proudly after having guessed the direction of Connor's thoughts. "It was Kara. She accosted me a moment ago to tell me you went to a Saint Nicholas feast at Cole's town, and you got Cole talking to you and made him forgive me."

Connor saw that there was no point in denying Hank's words.

"He wasn't really angry at you," he said truthfully. "He rather thought he wasn't good enough for you. That you didn't love him because he didn't want to learn to play the organ."

"But that's bullshit," Hank sighed.

"That's…what I told him, more or less."

"Thank you, Connor," Hank said sincerely. "I really appreciate what you've done for me. But why didn't you tell me? Did you want it to be a surprise?"

Connor took a deep breath. The simplest thing in the world would be to just nod and let Hank think that. But the punch gave him an unexpected courage, so he was able to speak as frankly as maybe never before.

"That too. But mostly I just didn't want you to think that you owe me anything. Or – God forbid – that I've done it because I want something from you. Because I don't. I… understand you don't want me. Compared to you, I'm no one. I've got nothing to offer to you," Connor finished with devastating honesty and let his eyes fall on the folder with musical scores he was crumpling between his fingers.

"Are you kidding me?" Hank stared at him incredulously. "Tell me how old are you now, Connor, twenty-one, twenty-two?"

"Twenty seven," Connor corrected him primly.

"That's still a lot younger than me," Hank waved his hand in dismissal. "Your life has just begun. You can still be whatever you want to be, while I'm…well. No need to spell it out, I guess. Nothing to offer to me – Connor, have you ever seen yourself in the mirror? You're pretty. No, not just pretty, _beautiful_,_"_ the organist said with conviction.

Connor blushed. He saw himself in the mirror every day, of course, but he had never considered himself beautiful. It had actually never occurred to him to think about his looks at all. He was raised to take meticulous care of personal hygiene and proper attire (probably too proper compared to most people's standards; he bought his first sneakers only after he started living alone), but he never indulged in vanity. Connor's first and only boyfriend wasn't one to give compliments. On the contrary, he made fun of Connor's peculiar fashion sense and lack of social skills. _You know what, Connor? Sometimes you look like a robot trying to pass for a human._

Hank leaned towards him to tenderly caress his face.

"Beautiful," he whispered again. "I've seen a few pretty boys in my life, but I never wanted…" Hank left his sentence unfinished.

"Never wanted what?" Connor asked softly. He almost didn't hear his own voice through the rush of blood in his ears.

"This," Hank rasped and kissed him on the lips.

"Thank you," Connor said with a small smile when their kiss ended. "I'll consider this my first ever Christmas present."

Hank's eyes sparkled with joyful mischief.

"If you allow me, I'll see to it that it's not your last," he murmured.

Connor chuckled, laying his head on Hank's shoulder. Everything suggested that his first real Christmas will be truly merry.

* * *

**END**


End file.
